


always glad you came

by McEnchilada



Category: Cheers (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Gay Frasier, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 08:26:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McEnchilada/pseuds/McEnchilada
Summary: After Lilith leaves with Dr. Pascal, Frasier is left alone with his thoughts, and Sam.takes place just after s11e7 "The Girl in the Plastic Bubble"





	always glad you came

And just like that, Lilith was gone.

Frasier Crane wasn’t the first person to wish their spouse was buried six feet under, but his circumstance was unique in that it would require her elevation to _increase_ by about ninety-four feet.

“ _The eco-pod_ ,” he scoffed, with all the considerable contempt he could voice. “Of all the ridiculous, vainglorious smirches on the name of science. What kind of ego-driven hack would even come up with something like that?”

“Actually, doc, I think you’ll find that it was none other than Leonardo da Vinci who drew up the first plans for a, uh, self-sustaining, contained environment.”

Some things, at least, could always be counted on, even when the foundations of the world trembled.

“No, no, really,” Cliff continued, when Norm made a sound of skepticism. Frasier pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed hopelessly that this would be over shortly. “With his superior knowledge of mathematics, hydrodynamics, and engineering, he was able to devise a perfect little underground ecosystem for himself, complete with the world’s first indoor toilet.”

Frasier met Sam’s eye across the bar; this was just too much for him, tonight. Sam half-smiled in understanding, and interrupted the impromptu lecture with, “Hey, fellas, it’s getting pretty late. Think you oughta head home?”

“You got it, Sammy,” said Norm, finishing the dregs of his last beer. He patted Cliff’s shoulder with the weary resignation of a man used to the sacrifice he was about to make. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Thanks, Norm. You know, many historians believe that Da Vinci may just have discovered the alchemical formula for eternal life. Yessir, somewhere under Florence, our friend Leonardo is flying his helicopter and eating pizza.”

“Cliffie, I think you’re thinking of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

The door closed behind them and Cheers was finally, mercifully empty. Frasier sighed into his scotch. 

“Want me to head out, too, Sam?” he asked, though it was about the last thing he wanted to do. Going home would mean being surrounded by everything Lilith had left. Frederick was at Lilith’s mother’s for the weekend—“so that you’ll have time to adjust,” Lilith had said—and there was nothing waiting at the apartment except crushing darkness and a suffocating silence. He wasn’t in the mood for much company, right then, but neither was he prepared to be alone.

Sam shook his head, mouth twisted in that wryly sympathetic smile he’d been wearing all day. “You take your time. I’ll just be cleaning up.”

Granted permission to wallow, Frasier buckled in to make the most of it. “The eco-pod,” he complained again, because he was sure he could put more scorn into it this time. “ _Googy_. Can you believe it, Sam, that my wife has left me for a man who lets himself be called _Googy_?”

No reply, except a smirk and a head shake. Was Frasier so pitiful that not even Sam could rally to his defense? God, had he fallen that low? He wished it was harder to believe.

“She was right, wasn’t she?” Frasier stared hard into his drink. “I’m just a stuffy, predictable old fool who couldn’t make a woman happy if my life depended on it. First Diane, now Lilith...what is it about me that renders me so inadequate? I’m not so insufferable, am I? I loved her. I provided a home, and a family. I was always faithful and honest, and damn it, I know she had no complaints about the sex! What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Hey, man, don’t beat yourself up that way,” Sam cut in, setting down the glass he’d been drying and leaning his elbows on the bar in front of Frasier. In the low light, his eyes looked very blue, and very intent. Frasier did his best to avoid them. “So you’ve had some bad experiences with women, that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. It just means you got unlucky.”

“Oh, come on, Sam, who am I kidding? All my life I’ve been the last choice, the loser. There isn’t one woman in the world who wouldn’t eventually leave me for some other man.”

“No, no, listen.” Sam leaned in closer, forcing Frasier to meet his eyes. Sam’s fingers tapped against the bartop as he spoke, to underline his words. “You start thinking like that, and soon enough you’re gonna end up as a _real_ loser, psyching yourself out before you even get a chance to meet a girl. So Lilith left you! And Diane—Diane was weird, man, she could’ve happened to anyone. But you gotta just pull yourself back up and go out there and try again, because you...well, hell, Frasier, you’re a great guy, and somewhere out there the right girl’s just waiting for you to come along.”

If Frasier’s battered heart beat just a little faster, it was his own business. His throat was too dry to speak, so he finished his scotch. Feeling far too fragile, he asked, “You really think so?”

Sam talked all the time about his hair, his car, his baseball career, but really, the only thing he’d ever needed to charm every woman in the city of Boston was his smile. Big, open, and just the slightest bit predatory—just enough to make you aware that he had you in his sights. It didn’t just light the room, it filled the room, and demanded all your attention. When Sam smiled, full force, you almost fell in love just looking at him.

Lilith so rarely _really_ smiled.

“Course I mean it,” Sam said, reaching his hand out just enough that his fingers brushed against Frasier’s. Frasier looked down at that point of fleeting contact, and thought about how close Sam had gotten.

It would be easier—much easier—if life operated by the rules of fiction. If the real world was dictated by the logic of comedies and telenovellas, consequences would be fleeting and easy to face, and the actions which led to those consequences would be the whims of fate, and not _really_ anyone’s fault.

In a sitcom, Frasier would be drunk enough that he couldn’t string two thoughts together (though not so drunk as to be inelegant). His recollection of the evening would end neatly at some harmless remark from a friend, just before another fateful round of drinks. He would never recall the series of decisions that led him here. His memory would return only the next morning when he awoke, bleary-eyed but not too much the worse for wear, naked and wrapped in sheets he wouldn’t immediately recognize as belonging on someone else’s bed. He would get a few moments of hazy, opaque contentment before he had to face the person lying beside him.

But, unfortunately, Frasier Crane was not a sitcom character.

He’d had a few drinks, yes, but not nearly enough that he didn’t know what he was doing. Barely enough that he could claim liquid courage, really. Just enough that he felt like he had an excuse when he let their hands overlap on the bar top, let the touch linger, let himself lean in and press his lips to Sam’s.

Sam, to his eternal credit, kissed him back. He had to have been surprised, but he didn’t act like it. He didn’t even have an excuse ready like Frasier did, no whiskey on his tongue or recently broken heart or empty bed waiting for him at home. He just kissed him, soft and simple, nevermind that he was a man and Frasier was a man and Frasier was his _friend_ and that this was impossible. Impossible, but somehow happening anyway.

“Hey there, Fras,” Sam murmured against Frasier’s mouth. He didn’t ask the question, but it was clear enough. _What the hell’s going on here, man?_

Frasier didn’t know. He didn’t know, and he couldn’t answer. He _couldn’t_ answer.

Sam was pulling back, putting distance between the two of them that scared Frasier stupid. Having space to think might just kill him.

“Sam, I—” He kept his eyes squeezed closed, felt his fingers spasm around Sam’s. He could barely breathe through the tightness in his chest. His panicked heart hammered. His whole body trembled.

Bless Sam a million times over, he stopped. He exhaled, a little huff of—resignation, perhaps? amusement? interest?—hot on Frasier’s lips. And then he leaned back in.

Sam kissed with confidence, of course. If anyone ought to be confident here, it was Sam Malone. Clearly, the man knew what he was doing. He kissed like there was nothing he’d rather be doing than bending over his bar and kissing Frasier breathless. He tangled one hand in Frasier’s hair, and wrapped the other around Frasier’s bicep, holding Frasier exactly where he wanted him. Sam’s aftershave, heavy and musky, surrounded Frasier, overwhelming his senses. It was almost enough that he couldn’t think, and god, how he wished he couldn’t think.

He wished he was in a sitcom, acting out a part someone else had written. He wished he could pretend he wasn’t responsible for what he was doing. He wished he could pretend he didn’t have any agency in this. But he couldn’t avoid it; this was his choice.

It was his choice to stand—stumble—off the barstool and fumble to pull Sam closer. Sam was willing, nearly bending Frasier backwards to kiss him deeper, but the bar was too wide for them to get anywhere near as close as they could be. Once upon a time, Frasier knew, Sam would’ve scrambled over the bar, all long-limbed grace, without a second thought, but they were both too old for that these days.

It was his choice to break away, smile at the surprise on Sam’s face, and hurry to the open end of the bar. Sam was there to meet him, waiting to wrap his arms around Frasier and kiss him like it was old news. Frasier had never kissed someone taller than him, had never felt hands as wide as Sam’s pressed along his spine, had never felt the stubble on someone’s jaw prickling his skin. He’d very deliberately never even imagined what those sensations might be like.

It was his choice to follow Sam when Sam started walking them backwards, towards the office. Frasier had his fingers curled into Sam’s belt loop, the other hand pushing up Sam’s sweater to splay over his chest. He could feel Sam’s heart racing, as fast as his, but Sam couldn’t be feeling the same frantic fear threatening to drown him. Sam always knew what he was doing, was always so self-assured and certain. Frasier had no idea what he was doing, only that he was the one doing it. He couldn’t say this was anyone else’s fault.

It was his choice not to say anything as the two of them worked together to pull out the couch bed, pre-made with creased sheets. Sam started to say something—“are you sure?” probably, or even just “what do you want?”—but Frasier couldn’t listen. If he listened, he’d lose his nerve, and if he lost his nerve, he’d never get it back. He just wanted, for a moment, to want this.

It was his choice to want it.

God, how he wanted it.

Afterwards, Frasier lay on his side, his back against Sam’s chest, and tried not to enjoy the feeling of Sam’s hand absently stroking up and down his thigh. They hadn’t turned on the light when they’d pulled each other into the office, and the darkness made it that much easier for him to cling to the sense that this wasn’t real. That he hadn’t just...that he and Sam hadn’t…

“You okay there?” Sam murmured, probably noticing Frasier’s tension. His hand stilled, curled almost carelessly but almost too-deliberately over Frasier’s hip.

“Fine,” answered Frasier. His voice was too hoarse to be convincing. Perhaps if he just stayed perfectly still, this would all have just been a dream.

Behind him, Sam sat up. His hand fell away from Frasier’s skin, and Frasier was so grateful to have it gone.

“Fras, look, man, don’t freak out about this, okay?” Sam’s voice had a plaintive tone to it. Frasier screwed up his courage to sit up and face him, a feat that was no less imposing in the dark. He could just make out Sam’s silhouette, and the shape of one arm raised so Sam could rub the back of his neck awkwardly. “This didn’t need to, y’know, _mean_ anything.”

Frasier felt that he was approaching hysteria. He swallowed a panicked chuckle before saying, “It _does_ mean something, Sam, it potentially means _a great deal_ and I—I can’t—Sam, look, I—”

“No, man, no way,” Sam interrupted him with force. Sam could be a very determined man. “We’re just two guys blowing off steam, that’s all. You were feeling vulnerable, and I was just the person who was there for you. Could’ve just as easily been Carla or Rebecca, or, or Cliff!”

Despite every other worry clamoring for Frasier’s attention, he couldn’t help but grimace at that image. “Sam, please. Not _Cliff_.”

“Alright, but the point is, that this doesn’t say anything about me or you or _me_ , or anything. We had a good time but now we’re just gonna drop it, okay?”

Frasier was a psychiatrist. More than that, he was a Freudian. He was well-acquainted with the idea of denial, and the damage it could do to bury crucial pieces of yourself where you could pretend they didn’t exist. He knew, furthermore, the necessity for clear-sighted self-reflection, and the willingness to face one’s demons in order to confront them in a healthy and productive manner. He dealt with patients everyday whose inability or unwillingness to examine the parts of their self-conscious they were afraid of, was the greatest source of their unhappiness.

But as worried as Sam was about what their actions that evening must clearly reflect about the both of them, Frasier was fairly certain that he himself was much, much more afraid to face the truth. 

“You got it, Sam,” he said, with a laudable attempt at conviction.

It hadn’t meant anything. They would never speak about it again, and he wouldn’t even think about it after tonight. This had just been a reaction to Lilith leaving, and there was absolutely nothing more to it than that. 

It was his choice to latch onto that life preserver of a lie, and promise himself that he’d never let it go.

**Author's Note:**

> look sometimes you're deep into an 11-season show & none of the on-screen pairings are really doing it for you so you just decide you're going to ship the first two characters who come to mind & then you spend the next several seasons waiting for anything you could claim is an opportunity for them to hook up & don't think that I'm proud of this
> 
> title is, of course, from the _Cheers_ theme song


End file.
